An Imitation of Life
by dramatic owl
Summary: Written for the dark bingo June mini-challenge on LJ. Nothing was ever really in her control. COMPLETE


**Author:** dramatic_owl  
**Fandom:** Hey Arnold!  
**Characters:** Miriam Pataki, Helga Pataki, Olga Pataki  
**dark_bingo prompts:** forced marriage, drunkenness/inebriation, brain damage, memories  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Just this story.  
**Summary:** Written for the LJ dark_bingo June mini-round. Nothing was ever really in her control.  
**Warnings:** Minor character death.**  
A/N:** Not beta'd yet.

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**AN IMITATION OF LIFE**

The bride-to-be was young and lovely; not more than twenty-one years old, blonde and blue-eyed, slender, very photogenic.

Gianni spoke encouraging words to her, joking with her and putting her at ease as he meticulously positioned her for each photograph. These types of pictures were always more of a challenge; making sure the angle of the body was just right, the bouquet of flowers held in just the right spot, the dress arranged properly.

But he wasn't just a wedding photographer; he was a true artist. And she was only just beginning to show.

Seated or standing the flowers were held low, right in front of her stomach to obscure the tiny hint of a bump, and he made sure she was facing front as much as possible when she stood. The use of surroundings and the framing was important, too. Full-length standing pictures especially were designed in such a way as to draw the eye away from her torso and up to her face.

At his coaxing before he snapped each picture she smiled prettily. It was hard to say whether she really was happy, but she made a good show of it. And she looked beautiful in every shot.

The groom-to-be, on the other hand, also smiled when Gianni did his best to put him at ease, but he only managed to look grimmer.

#

Peeled peaches went in first, two cups of peeled peaches. That was the part of the recipe that required the most work and the most time. She didn't know why she'd chosen to add to her concoctions an ingredient that needed to be peeled and sliced; it was extra work. But it didn't take that long and doing the task gave her an odd sense of satisfaction…it was proof of her self-control. After that came one cup of passion fruit nectar. With the opening of the La Casa Latina grocery store in their neighborhood she now had access to all sorts of exotic tropical juices and nectars that she'd never been able to get before. Why not make it all taste better? Last in was the vanilla frozen yogurt for thickness, ice cubes, and of course the vodka. Blend until smooth. Pour into four tall glasses and drink all of them.

She would never learn to like the taste of alcohol; she only craved the numbness it brought, the way it erased or at least dulled the pain. But vodka didn't taste like anything, it blended in with whatever she mixed it with, and most importantly it didn't smell on the breath. Nobody needed to know what was in the smoothies she drank all day, every day.

#

The young woman scowled as the doctor nodded impassively and made some notes on their mother's chart. Her older sister's expression mirrored her sentiments.

After several more questions, 'uh-huhs' in response to their answers and a lot of note-taking, the doctor announced that she would schedule an MRI to assess whether their mother had suffered a stroke. It would be an hour at least before the scan was done and they had results to talk about with them, so the two sisters waited until the technicians came to transport Miriam to the radiology department then went down to the cafeteria, relieved to be in a place that smelled like coffee instead of like a hospital.

They sat at one of the round tables toward the back of the room and drank their coffees in silence, both of them numb and in shock; and at the same time resigned. There was nothing to discuss really. Neither of them could say anything about this that the other didn't already know. Their mother had been killing off brain cells for years. That she was showing signs of brain damage now was not a surprise; the only surprise was that it took this long to become obvious. Whether it was from a stroke or drinking too much or something else didn't matter. It wouldn't change anything.

And the doctor knew of course. How could she not? She was a professional, for cripes sake. The bloodshot eyes, the color and texture of their mother's skin, all of it had to be obvious to a medic. That didn't mean they liked answering the questions though. They had no idea how many alcoholic drinks she consumed a day, just that it was a lot and she had years and years of drinking that much daily behind her. While her sister clammed up completely when asked she told the truth. It wasn't worth trying to hide it. The doctor knew anyway, and revealed that fact in not so many words when she specifically told them she was going to order a full liver function panel along with everything else.

A good friend she'd worked with on a job a few years before told her that his father had several 'mini' strokes before the big one that killed him. Nobody knew they'd occurred; his father drank right through every one of them and never sought treatment, oblivious to what had happened. It wouldn't be a shock to discover that their mother had done the very same thing.

They wouldn't have even known anything was wrong if she hadn't gotten lost the way she did. She and Olga had come back to see her for Mother's Day. The car was gone when they arrived at around two o'clock that afternoon, so they figured Miriam went out to do an errand and would be back shortly. Night fell and she still never came home. Just as they were about to call the police to report her missing, the police called them. They'd found Miriam sitting in her car ninety miles away. She had no idea that anything was wrong and claimed she was looking for La Casa Latina, a grocery store that was a couple of blocks away from the house. In her disorientation she didn't realize that she'd driven for over an hour or how far she was from home.

A tow was arranged for the car and Miriam was taken straight to the nearest hospital. Then the two of them got into Olga's car and drove for over an hour to be with her there.

"Do you think she ever considered going to AA?" Olga asked suddenly.

Helga shrugged. It wasn't something she liked to think about and she'd decided a long time ago that playing the 'what if' game was futile. Their mother was probably aware of the hell she was living in. She was in denial possibly, but aware on some level. She had to be. Maybe she had gone to AA, tried to clean up and get sober, and was too ashamed when she didn't succeed. Or maybe everything felt too hopeless and she never thought it was even worth trying in the first place.

"I don't know. It's possible," she offered noncommittally. "Or maybe she tried to do it on her own."

When she was a little girl she simply wrote her mother off as inept; she really had no other way to explain why her mother slept all the time and in such strange places, like on the floor behind the couch or at the kitchen table. Or why she couldn't make a proper lunch for her, why she didn't seem at all interested in raising her, why she couldn't be like other mothers. And why she (and their father) doted on her older sister but completely ignored her.

It wasn't until she was in the sixth grade, eleven years old, that she began to understand some of it. They'd been released from school early that day, for a reason she couldn't recall anymore. It must have been something important because she, along with the rest of the gang, went straight home instead of going to hang out in their vacant lot. But that part of it never stuck with her. Coming home and what happened there was what was seared into her brain forever. She didn't know why she entered the house so quietly that afternoon, instead of yelling out the way she always did and letting the front door slam behind her; maybe she had a feeling.

Sounds of her mother puttering around in the kitchen reached her ears when she stepped inside and crept into the living room. She headed toward the kitchen, thinking that she would join her mother for one of her delicious peach passion fruit smoothies. And stopped at the doorway when she caught her mother pouring the vodka into the blender, then opening the cabinet beneath the sink, crouching down and shoving the bottle of Absolut way in the back, behind the pipes, where no one would think to look for it. Seeing her hiding the bottle was far more disturbing than the confirmation that she spiked her smoothies with liquor.

Silently she backed out of the doorway and out of sight. Her heart was pounding in her ears as she snuck up the stairs to her room and shut the door softly.

Eventually her mother stopped even bothering with the smoothies. A screwdriver took less time to prepare, she imagined.

Maybe in a way the rest of the family was to blame, too. They never confronted her with her problem or urged her to get help. Like everything else and to quote their father the whole family swept this under the rug.

She was thirteen when she figured out that she was an unexpected surprise, arriving just as her mother's childbearing years were waning. And when she was twenty-five and their father passed away the rest of the pieces fell into place. As they sat together looking at their parents' wedding picture Olga told her that a photographer friend of hers explained to her how photographers positioned brides and photographed them so it wouldn't show when they were pregnant. She'd been unplanned too. For the first time then Helga felt truly sorry and profoundly sad for her mother.

And a little less resentful of her sister Olga.

Her coffee had grown cold, she discovered upon absently picking up the cup and taking a sip. She set it down with a grimace and glanced at her sister, watching her as she stared out into the room and anxiously bit her nails. Then she opened her black leather handbag, dug through it and pulled out a pack of peppermint-flavored gum. She shook a couple of silver-wrapped sticks loose, took one for herself and held the package out.

"I managed to stop biting them for two weeks," Olga said, gratefully accepting a stick. "Thanks."

#

Their mother's prognosis wasn't good. The doctors remained hopeful, or at least they put on a show of it, and planned to keep her admitted until her blood pressure, which was still very high, was stabilized, and then they would transfer her to a rehabilitation center for therapy. But evidence of two mini-strokes and a third larger stroke showed up on her MRI and her liver was shot. It wouldn't be long before they lost her, too. All she needed to do was take another drink.

There were decisions to make and affairs to be put in order. Miriam Pataki didn't have a will and there were no instructions as to what she wanted done with her remains. She had been too disorganized and overwhelmed; she hadn't made any arrangements at all. But for now they sat at her bedside while she talked about when they were children, confused as to the timing of things even though the events themselves were clear in her mind. Mama seemed to remember the two of them being little girls together and neither of them corrected her. They were just glad that her memory wasn't completely gone and that she still knew who they were.

Some of the stories she told seemed to be a figment of her imagination. Or at least they weren't events Olga remembered, though their mother described them in detail and claimed she was there. It was possible she had mixed up who was who as well. There was a story about a road trip and a mechanical bull riding contest that she won.

"You remember, Olga. I told you all about how I was a rodeo champion when I was a girl."

Helga's face changed almost imperceptibly at that and Olga made a note to ask her about it later.

She and Helga had never been close, not until after their father passed away. It was something that she didn't understand for a long time and it had always made her sad that they couldn't be like other sisters; they didn't play or giggle together, or even bicker. But they were never small children at the same time and they didn't really grow up together even though they were sisters. She was already twelve years old when Helga was born, nearly a teenager; they were almost from different generations. By the time Helga was old enough to appreciate Wanky Land Olga was going to dances and chasing boys. By the time Helga was starting to go to dances and chase boys Olga was divorcing her abusive first husband and embarking on a career change.

Olga could never put her finger on what changed, but a strange kind of simpatico grew between them after their father's funeral. Talking on the phone wasn't something either of them had much time for, but they texted and emailed each other to stay in touch. They lived in different cities now but made it their business to meet at least twice a year, to catch up in person and see how the other one was doing. When their jobs brought both of them to Paris at the same time one year they met for drinks and strolled along the Seine together. And when her second marriage began to fail too and the specter of alcoholism threatened to destroy her life the same way it had ravaged their mother's it was her little sister who intervened and gave her the support and encouragement she needed.

Helga had always been the stronger one; and the luckier one in some ways, she sometimes thought with a pang of envy. Maybe she would have been better off if her parents had ignored her, too. Helga always resented the attention they paid her, but she didn't understand, at least not back then, that all of that attention was mired in unspoken but palpable demands and high expectations. It wasn't too hard to figure out why she had an ulcer by the time she was twenty-five.

Their mother didn't seem to be in any pain, which was a great relief, and she seemed happy as she recounted tales of the past. But after darkness fell, when she and her sister stood to leave and said goodbye Miriam Pataki's face was filled with sadness and regret. Olga wasn't sure but as they walked out of the room she thought she heard her whisper an apology.


End file.
